"Come around and see me to-morrow at headquarters. I'm in bed now." He pretended a yawn, still keenly alert.
"You done me dirt, Mr. Dawson. Ah ain' stan' fer dat f'um no man, white or black."
Dawson rose to his feet, and swayed menacingly on his bare toes. "I don't let nobody disturb me after I've gone to bed, Cole. Git out of here." His hand started working its way back along the sheeting.
The negro's startled eyes saw the slow motion; Dawson heard the chatter of his teeth.
"Ah'm—Ah'm gon'ter fix you, Mr. Dawson"—he raised the right hand, weighted with an ugly forty-five.
Dawson acted with all his speed. He threw himself toward the floor sideways, grasping his pistol as he fell. The gun in the hands of the negro roared, flamed; the smoke blinded Dawson's eyes, stung his nostrils. He fumbled with the trigger of his pistol.
Cole's foot shot out; the chair between them bounded grotesquely at him, crashing into his arm, spoiling his aim. He heard the pistol click again. He rose, aiming.
As he saw the direct flare of the hot breath toward him, his own pistol clicked impotently. At dizzy speed his mind traveled—should he try again, or swing the cylinder to the next shell?
How had the negro missed him at that distance?
Then came the sense of the terrific blow caving in his ribs, gutting its way throughout his inside. His huge face, which seemed to the negro to reach almost to the ceiling, gasped into a wrenched grimace of pain; the eyes closed, the mouth popped oddly open, like a frog's. An explosive intake of breath shivered horribly.